


BUNNY

by iceblinks



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, area man loses in sochi and cries about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28414344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceblinks/pseuds/iceblinks
Summary: “What are you doing in Sochi, Yuuri?” Viktor’s hands are warm against Yuuri’s stomach. “What are you doing with yourself?”
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	BUNNY

Someone has scratched something illegible into the stall door. Yuuri runs his thumb over the crack in his phone case and stares at it. It’s in Russian, probably, but the lines are too feathered to make any sense of. It spans an unimpressive eight centimeters, the length of the door’s lock. Yuuri looks at it and sort of wants to die. 

Here are the facts: he is in Sochi, he is in dead last, he is going to throw up. Maybe. He pokes at the crack in his phone case. He hasn’t decided yet. This is what he gets for wanting to meet the rabbit on the moon: a hairline crack in the right lens of his glasses, several rapidly wilting bouquets, and a mouthful of regrets. 

The floor is wet beneath his sneakers. He glares at the graffiti and calls his mother, because that’s what he does when he’s sad or he’s scared or he’s being stupid. He calls his mother and lets her tell him he’s a better person than he really is. 

So then he cries, and then a kid kicks the door down and yells at him for crying. Yuri Plisetsky looks like the type of person to graffiti a stall door. He looks like the type of person to find the rabbit on the moon and drag it out onto center stage of the universe just to strangle it while everybody is watching. Everybody is always watching Yuri Plisetsky. 

Yuuri does what he knows best: he leaves. 

* * *

This is a lie. He doesn’t leave, not yet, because there is an after-party and he is crushed enough to not care about getting drunk in front of people who are better than him. This is definitely a low point. As if he hadn’t already embarrassed himself enough. Maybe he should lick the floor or take off his shoes or grab another flute of champagne. 

He grabs another flute of champagne. 

“Are you okay,” someone says, and Yuuri can’t tell who he is, only that he’d placed above Yuuri in both qualifiers and the official competition. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean,” Yuuri says, and he smiles brilliantly because there is a tiny drop of champagne making its way down the side of his glass. The chandelier floats serenely above him, refracting rainbows across his eyelids. 

“Just askin’, goddamn,” the guy says, and he gets up. His chair catches on the carpet. He doesn’t push it back in. “You look terrible.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Yuuri reaches out and touches the drop. It falls flat against his fingertip, spilling down the tiny indents in his skin. 

“Whatever, man.”

The guy leaves. Yuuri licks his finger. 

* * *

He’s always been a good dancer. And so here he is, fingertips and tongue stained artificial red from god knows what he’d eaten a half-hour ago. He’s dancing. 

And there’s another guy. Yuuri thinks he might’ve made him up. Enough time spent staring at a guy in seven-hundred-and-twenty pixels will do that to you. Enough time spent staring at a guy on the posters in your bedroom will do that to you. He is impossibly perfect. He cannot be real. He is the product of an industry-wide fever dream. 

The guy is real. His name is Viktor and it’s the only name Yuuri remembers all night. His name is Viktor and he introduces himself like he expects Yuuri to not know who he is. Yuuri simultaneously wants to slap him and press two fingers to the side of his neck to feel his pulse. 

“I’m Katsuki,” he slurs. “Yuuri.” 

“I know,” Viktor says, and it’s the most ironic thing Yuuri’s heard all year. 

Viktor can dance. He has hair the color of moonlight and blue-green eyes. He has long arms and longer legs and he twirls Yuuri around so gracefully that Yuuri can’t even pout about being twirled. 

“I know, Katsuki Yuuri,” he says. He leans in, and his lips touch the shell of Yuuri’s ear. Maybe this is how it feels, to be the rabbit on the moon. The rabbit on the sun. The rabbit in a sensory deprivation tank. Either way. 

Either way, Yuuri dances and Viktor dances and they keep dancing until they’re both uncoordinated and out of breath. And then Yuuri pulls himself away to grab another flute of champagne and he dances some more. He gets up on the table. He takes off his tie and unbuttons his shirt with shaky fingers. Look at him. He is scared. He can’t even pull off a triple fucking toe loop when it matters, but he can dance. He is dancing. Look at him. Look. At. Him. 

Viktor is looking at him. Yuuri’s tripwire heart beats out of his chest and lays itself down on the banquet table. He’s always been a good dancer, and Viktor _has_ to see that. He absolutely must see the sharp angles of Yuuri’s shoulder blades, his two-tone forearms, the scar under his chin from when he was seven. This is a necessity. 

“You’re drunk, Yuuri,” Viktor says from halfway across the room. His voice carries. His presence carries. “Please get down from the table.”

Yuuri stumbles off of the table, marionette strings sliced to the floor. Viktor, apparently, does not want to see his shoulder blades or his forearms or the scar under his chin. He smiles. This is okay, probably. 

“Viktor,” he says, stumbling forward, and he trips over one of his socks and crushes his nose against Viktor’s chest. He smells like expensive cologne and too-sweet too-red cupcakes. “Viktor, Viktor, Viktor. Be my coach, Viktor.”

“What?”

“Be my coach.”

He can’t see Viktor’s face, so he does the next best thing: he wraps his arms around him, squeezing him tightly. 

“Why?”

“‘Cause you’re pretty. ‘Cause I don’t think I wanna keep skating anymore.” 

Viktor squeezes his hands between his chest and Yuuri’s. “Are you any good?”

“I dunno. Probably.”

“Then why did you lose?”

Yuuri freezes. His arms go slack around Viktor, and he has to stop himself from ramming his forehead into Viktor’s collarbone.

“What are you doing in Sochi, Yuuri?” Viktor’s hands are warm against Yuuri’s stomach. “What are you doing with yourself?”

Yuuri jerks away, breathing hard. Viktor stares down at him. 

You know the story. Boy, plane, sky. Boy watches another boy through TV static. Boy thinks he can pound mochi on the moon if he builds enough muscle. And then he gets to the moon and finds that the rabbit isn’t there, that someone killed it first, that Yuri Plisetsky and Viktor Nikiforov worked hand-in-hand to throw its body back down to Earth. He gets to the moon and finds a kingdom of absolutely nothing. 

“What are you doing with yourself?” Viktor repeats. 

The illusion breaks. He is just another person in the banquet hall, and Yuuri is just Yuuri. So he leaves, because this is what he does when he has nothing left to say. This is what he will do with himself. 

The after-party ends. Yuuri stumbles to the bathroom and sits down on the covered toilet seat. And he cries, probably. 

**Author's Note:**

> “are you okay?” no. i am your deadbeat uncle who comes around twice a year to smoke on your front porch and ask your mother for cash. i am back for another round of rabbit-on-the-moon references slash metaphors slash whatever this was
> 
> so. ice adolescence huh


End file.
